


Synesthesia

by themoononastick



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Drugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoononastick/pseuds/themoononastick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cabin fever fucks with your mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synesthesia

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to zelda_zee & foxxcub for the beta.

Spencer bites and scratches, laughs while he's doing it. Spencer hits, open-handed, flat-palmed resounding smacks that ricochet around the room and echo up Jon's spine. Heat spreads through him, starting at the spot on his ass that's burning hotter with every swat of Spencer's hand, crawling across his skin and creeping along his nerves, until Jon swears he can feel the thrum of it under his nails, in his eyelashes and right down to the ends of his hair. Jon squirms into Spencer's hand and away from it, wanting more and less at the same time. His skin throbs and his whole body vibrates when Spencer settles behind him, leans down to cover Jon's body with his own and Jon feels the momentary cool of Spencer's skin tight against where his is ablaze. Jon cries out, harsh and feral, when Spencer pushes into him, breathless and desperate, but then Spencer finds a rhythm and all Jon can focus on is the push and pull and stretch of Spencer inside him, dragging him away from everything and making him forget his own name.

 

Ryan slipped Spencer acid two days ago and he hasn't come down yet, preferring to chase each low away with a fresh high. Jon can't decide whether to call Pete, a doctor or Ryan's dealer. He settles for the dealer, it's less complicated that way, not as much to explain. The blotting paper tastes bitter on Jon's tongue so he swallows it down, then sits on the bed, gets bored and lies down next to Spencer and waits. It takes an hour for the patterns to begin to appear in front of his eyes, and days for them to go away. Or maybe it just takes a night. Jon can't tell anymore, he lost track of time when they got here. He thinks they all did. The world could have ended outside the walls of the cabin and they wouldn't know. But that's depressing so Jon stops thinking about it and rolls towards Spencer instead, the acid in his bloodstream making them melt together: shared breath, shared worries, shared skin.

 

 _In the morning, a Sidekick buzzes forgotten on a table. Jon ignores it, but at least, he thinks, it means civilization still exists._

 

There's a camera trained on them, Shane visiting to film his friends at work and finding them missing, four mad men in their place. Spencer screams and hollers, running down corridors with wild eyes and a wilder grin, before he settles behind his drum kit and starts to count off a beat in double time that probably sounds in sync to him. Jon's vertebrae grind together as he rolls his neck and drops his head forward, smiling to himself as the patterns in the carpet slide and slip together too slowly to keep up with the rhythm of the music in his head. On the floor Ryan beats his guitar into submission as Brendon stands over him, hood pulled up to hide his face. Brendon's singing something but Jon can't make the words out, but then, he doubts if the words really exist outside of Ryan's head; Brendon's just singing nonsense to fill the space. Brendon kneels on the floor, crouches over Ryan, drops down onto him, the guitar howling out strange melodies from its place trapped between them as they twist and turn and pull at each other, discordant and beautiful, a perfect fit. Jon looks up from them just in time to see Shane backing out of the room with a strange look on his face. Jon wonders idly if Shane wants to join in.

 

 _There's a phone in the cabin that starts ringing every hour on the hour. It's loud and annoying. Jon unplugs it the next time it rings._

 

Ryan's dull-eyed and far away, alternating between bursts of laughter and angry silence, muttering words that make no sense under his breath as his hand flies over the paper, scrawling out lyrics that tell a story none of them really understand, not even him. Spencer and Brendon watch from a distance, Brendon curled into Spencer who's curled in on himself, finally crashing back down to earth, tired to the point where he can't sleep. Jon sits beside them, close enough to reach out and comfort if he's needed but not close enough that they touch. He's holding himself apart from them because someone has to keep an eye on Ryan and Jon thinks that right now he's the one who’s closest to being sober. As long as sober is a relative term being used in its loosest possible sense. When Ryan runs out of paper he crawls over and writes on Jon instead. Wet ink that dries cold across the bite marks and bruises on Jon's skin. When he's used all the places on Jon's arms he can get at, Ryan tugs at Jon's clothes, stripping him down to nothing so he has all the space that he needs. Jon doesn't stop him and doesn't question it when Ryan’s clothes hit the floor next to his.

Jon lets Ryan fuck him on the couch that was clean when they arrived here but now feels gritty and dirty beneath him. Jon has his head pillowed on Spencer's lap and Brendon's fingers carding through his hair as Ryan strains forward, pushing them all closer together in the confined space. Jon's pillow shifts, his head falling into space before he moves enough to re-anchor himself. When Jon turns to look, Brendon is there, smiling, impossibly close as he leans forward and opens his mouth around Spencer's dick. Jon closes his eyes and focuses on sound and movement, on grunting breaths, slick wet suction, the creak of the couch's springs and the slap of skin against skin. A soundtrack to the push of Ryan inside him and the roll of Ryan's hips that forces Jon's shoulders harder back into Spencer's thighs, which flex and tense and rock upwards beneath his head. Jon hears mumbled curses, whispered words and a sharp stuttered cry, he thinks at least one of them came from him, but he doesn't know which.

Jon wakes with Ryan still lying on top of him, ink stains smudged across their arms and chests, memories of the night before lingering in the ache of his muscles when he moves and in the itching on his skin. Spencer's sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch with Brendon sprawled across his lap, and when he hears Jon shift he turns and smiles, leans in for a kiss. Jon's mouth is dry and his lips feel stuck together; Spencer's tastes like ash and last night's whiskey; none of them have showered in days. Jon doesn't care though, he just opens his mouth when Spencer hums against his lips and closes his eyes again, laughing when he hears Brendon croak out "No fair, 's my turn." Jon doesn't need to open his eyes to see the way that Ryan grins.

 

 _Shane comes to visit again, alone this time, no crew with him, just him and his camera. He drags Brendon to one side, talks at him in quick, worried pauses, shaking his head for emphasis and gesturing around him at the mess only he can see. Brendon lets Shane finish, then passes him a beer with a shrug of his shoulders. Jon thinks Shane looks scared, he wonders if maybe_ he _should be._

 

They've been up for two days straight when Ryan smashes his guitar, flying high on weed and amphetamines that make the ideas flow but impossible to pin down. Ryan looks like an alien, impossibly thin with legs and arms too long, twisting at weird angles in the shadows behind him. Jon steps closer carefully, traces the lines of Ryan's too placid face with his fingertips and ends up shoved face first into the mattress leaning against the wall, his arm twisted high behind his back, shorts bunched at his ankles, Ryan's split-slick fingers stretching him open and Ryan's breath hot on the back of his neck. In the corner Spencer and Brendon watch them, mouths and hands and bodies moving too fast for Jon to see details, because time feels syrupy and liquid, like he’s trapped in a bubble and inside it everything has slowed to a crawl. Jon tries to remember when he swallowed the last of the acid, if this is a fresh trip or if he's having flashbacks already. He starts to laugh about it, but then Ryan does something with his fingers, a twist and rough slide inside him, and Jon forgets how to think. Brendon's spine arches when Jon's does, Spencer pushing into him at the same time as Ryan pushes into Jon, Spencer keeping the beat between them like he always does. Jon sees sparks when he comes, but he can't tell if they're in his head or just embers from the glow of Ryan's burning guitar. Jon wonders if the mic beside him is still on, if this is all being recorded. There’s a part of him that hopes it is.

 

 _Shane isn't there in the morning when they wake up. He might not have been there for days now. Jon doesn't remember seeing him leave._

 

The air on the roof is fresh and clean. It slaps at Jon's face like a wake-up call as he lights the joint in his hand and takes the first drag, trying to clear his mind by muddling it again. Jon's finger hurts, he can't remember what he did to it but it's wrapped in black tape that's peeling away and sticks to his palm when he curls his hand into a fist. It doesn't feel broken and there's no dried blood or cuts on his knuckles, so he probably didn't punch anything. Or anyone. But there's a part of him that thinks that maybe he did. He hears footsteps behind him and turns just enough to see Spencer balancing his way to where he's sitting. Jon smiles and shuffles over in invitation and smiles wider when Spencer drops down beside him. Spencer shakes his head 'no' when Jon offers him the joint, saying something about rooftops and falling and Jon throws the joint away over the roof's edge, thinking maybe what Spencer says makes sense.

"Someone unplugged the phone a few days ago. There's like a hundred messages on the voicemail, it's insane." Spencer sounds bone-weary, like he's dredging the words up from a place far away.

Jon can relate to that; he's never felt as tired in his life as he does now, not on tour, not at home, not ever. He scrubs his hand across his face and pulls his hat down a little lower. It's cold on the roof. Jon feels exposed up here, a little raw and uncertain but he's also feeling clear-headed for the first time in days, maybe weeks.

"I think it was me but, fuck, I can't remember. I don't even know what day of the week it is anymore." Jon laughs as he says the words but there's an edge to his voice that he doesn't have the energy to hide.

"It's Thursday." Spencer laughs too, adding, "There's a calendar in my room, I just checked," when Jon looks at him questioningly.

They sit in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the wind and the birds in the trees until Spencer leans closer, nudging his elbow into Jon's side as he speaks.

"I think we've all gone a little bit insane and we probably need to..." Spencer waves a hand vaguely in the air, like he doesn't quite have the words for what they need to do.

"Yeah, it's gotten kinda fucked up. But." Jon pauses, a little knot of worry beginning to form in his chest. "We're okay, right?"

Spencer smiles, leans into what's left of the space between them, the tight feeling vanishing as Jon feels the breath of Spencer's words against his lips.

"We're okay."


End file.
